


Keep Your Eyes to the Sky

by LastHope



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Different Perspective, District 11, Hunger Games Rewrite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-11 10:59:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3325019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LastHope/pseuds/LastHope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The phrase had different meanings.  But there was only one meaning that mattered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep Your Eyes to the Sky

A hand claps him sharply on his back as they enter the southern workplace.  This is his first time in the southern one; normally he is up on the north side, but a worker for the south is sick and, as he’s still not technically an adult yet, he is one of many who are repurposed until he gets assigned a permanent workplace.  Every workplace has different amenities and different quotas.

The south one has a higher quota than the north, which is why he is needed down here instead of up in the north like he is usually posted.  Unlike the north, the southern workplace doesn’t have any bell to signal break times or the end of the work shift.  The southern workplace has more accidents than the northern one.  He is nervous, and worried, and isn’t too sure about this switch, but it was too late to protest.

“Don’t worry about anything,” The old man who claps him on the back says, grinning.  “We gotta real angel lookin’ after us, you hear boy?  Just keep your eyes to the sky, and I don’t doubt that you’ll get a glimpse a’ her.”

He doesn’t believe in angels, not really, but he doesn’t question the old man.  His mother always taught him to respect his elders and not to talk back, and he’s not about to ignore her teachings now.  He’s just going to keep his head down and do his work, and hopefully before too long he’ll be done, and placed back at the northern workplace.

Hours into the work shift, not nearly time for break but getting close, he hears the ruffling of leaves and branches above him.  Confused and curious, he looks up, because there shouldn’t be anyone up above him in the trees.  The branches are too brittle to hold someone.

But there is.  There is someone above him.  It is a little girl, perched on a branch, grinning down at him like a mischievous monkey.  She swings down so she’s hanging upside down off of her branch to be closer to him, but she’s small enough that he has to stand on his branch to make up the difference.

“Never seen you here before,” She comments casually, chewing on a piece of fruit.  The juice drips off her fingers, and she licks them and wipes her hands on her shirt.  She’s completely confident and at ease hanging from the branch even though it’s an incredible distance from her perch to the ground below.

“Not normally posted here,” He tells the girl.  She nods as if she expected this answer, and swings herself back right-side up on the branch.  Without another word, she waves at him, and then is vanishing through the foliage onto the next tree.  He turns back to his work and hopes that time will go quickly.

Recounting the experience to the same old man who had talked to him on the way down to the workplace after the shift ends, and the old man laughs and slaps his back again.

“Sounds like you saw our little angel!” He guffaws.  “Ain’t she just a little darling?”

He isn’t too sure, because he didn’t have that big of an interaction with her, so he remains silent.  The old man takes this as an assent to his words though.

Unfortunately for him, (or maybe fortunately, he isn’t too sure) he’s kept at the southern workplace for two weeks.  He runs into the little girl at some point every day while he’s working there, and before he consciously realizes it, he actively starts looking for the girl, keeping his eyes to the sky to catch a glimpse of her as she races from tree to tree.

Before he realizes it, he starts to care for her, like a sister.  The old man assures him that it’s nothing new, and that everyone who spends time at their workplace starts to care for their angel.  By the time the two weeks are up and he’s sent back to the north, he finds that he misses her.

The next time the southern workplace needs a worker, he volunteers.

“Thought you didn’t like it here,” She comments, raised above him like a higher being.  She’s younger than him, covered in dirt, but she has an innocent shine to her, like the disparities of the district doesn’t bother her.  Like she’s accepted it.

“I like the northern workplace better,” He admits because it is true, “But you guys needed someone to fill in down here, and I figured it would be better to have someone who has already come down here before than trying to put someone else in.”

She hums thoughtfully, before spying a mockingjay on a branch level with her, and singing at it.  It’s a different tune than the one he’s gotten used to her singing to signal breaks and the end of the work shift.  The mockingjay mimics the tune, and all of a sudden the entire workplace is filled with the sound of mockingjays singing her tune.

He doesn’t know why she did that, but then again, he doesn’t really need an explanation.  No one needs an explanation for all the things they do, after all.  Still, even though he doesn’t ask, he gets what he guesses is an answer when the shift ends for the day.

“So, I guess you really do like it here, don’tcha?” The old man walks with him as they dismiss for the day.  He’s not sure how the old man got that impression, but he doesn’t deny.

“Yeah,” he shrugs.  “A bit, I guess.”

“What would you say if I offered you the chance to work here officially?” The old man asks.  “I can pull some strings to get you assigned to the southern workplace if you want it.”

“I’d say I would have to think about it,” He says, before politely tacking on, “Sir.”  He decides that it’s only polite to be formal with someone who is offering him a job.

“Well, go ahead and think about it boy,” The old man claps him on the back once more.  “And get back to me as soon as you have an answer for me.”

“I will,” He nods, and already decides in his head that he will take the old man up on his offer of a job in the southern work place.

He never gets to take him up on his offer.

He is eighteen years old.  This is his last year to participate in the reaping.  This is his last year to avoid being placed in the annual Hunger Games.

He fails.

This year, boys are picked before girls.  Their District’s liaison to the capital dips his hand into the fishbowl of male names, reaches it toward the middle, and pulls one.  The liaison pauses, for effect undoubtedly, before calling the male tribute’s name.

Before calling _his_ name.

Six years of not having his name called, six years of being able to breathe easy after the reaping, being able to say thank you, thank you for not picking me, his luck has run out.

He’s been reaped.

There’s no one willing to volunteer for him so after he ascends the stage he stands in silence until the liaison draws the name of the female tribute.

When the liaison calls the name, he doesn’t recognize the name, but he recognizes the face.

The female tribute is only twelve.  Sure figures, not only does he have rotten luck this year, but a little kid gets chosen as well.  He recognizes the face though.  It’s her.

The angel of the southern workplace.

She isn’t crying as she climbs up onto the stage, but she is smiling.  It’s a sad smile, a rueful one.  No one volunteers for her either.

The anthem plays, and then the reaping is done, and they are led inside the justice building.  Before they are inside though, but after the cameras have left, a sound rings out behind them, causing both of them to stop.  It’s a whistle, just four notes, but both of them recognize it.  It’s the song she sings to the mockingjays to signal the end of the work shift.  One person whistles it, then three, then ten, and then the entire group is whistling it.  She smiles, and sings it back, just once, not even loud enough for everyone to hear it, and that causes everyone to stop.

She gives a small wave before they are inside, and separated from the rest of their district for the first, and last, time.

They are allotted an hour to say their farewells to family and friends.  He is not on good terms with his family, and he does not have many friends.  He does not expect a visit.

He gets a visit.

It’s from the old man that offered him a job at the southern workplace.  Even though he is a foot taller than the old man, the old man pulls him into a hug, pulling his head down into his shoulder as if expecting him to cry.  To be truthful, part of him does want to.

“Tough luck,” The old man says as he releases him, which is the truth.  He means no malice, no ill will; he is just stating the truth.

“I was going to say yes,” He blurts out, unprompted.  “To working in the southern workplace, I mean.  I was going to take the job.”

The old man looks sad, but he nods, like he knew that was going to be his answer.  A Peacekeeper comes to take him away, but he stops the old man.

“Can you ask someone to visit me?” He asks, “If it’s not too much trouble?”

“I suppose, if I can find them before visits are over,” The old man agrees, rubbing his beard thoughtfully.  “Who is it, son?”

He tells him, and the old man clicks his tongue before asking him if he is sure.

He is sure.

Ten minutes later he has the visitor he requested.  He stands when the visitor enters the room, and walks over to him.  There are tears in his visitor’s eyes, only showing how upset he is.

“Sir,” He shakes the other’s hand, and introduces himself.  “I wanted to tell you that I am going to do my best to make sure your daughter makes it.”

Because this is the angel’s father.

“You don’t have to do that,” Her father shakes his head, before saying, “I’d rather you didn’t do that.  Say that.”

He’s a bit taken aback.

“Why?” He can’t help but asking.

“Because I know how it always goes!” Her father erupts angrily, obviously trying to keep his temper but not quite succeeding.  “The promises of keeping each other safe, before inevitably turning on one another and tearing out each other’s throats.  I’m not going to listen to a promise that will just be broken.” And he doesn’t listen to anything else he might have to say.  He turns and strides out of the room without needing the Peacekeeper to come in and escort him out.

He feels guilty, knows that her father is referring to the 68th Annual Games where two of the last three competitors were from their district.  They had been left to believe they were the last ones left, and tried to tear the other’s throat out to win.  Both of them had died, and it allowed the last competitor, a girl from District 9, to be the victor that year.

Still, he decides he wants to do his best to keep an eye on her.  Do his best to make sure she survives as long as she can.  If he can.

Before long, they are both ushered onto the train that will lead take them to the Capitol.

She vanishes almost immediately, and doesn’t reappear until the tail end of dinner, in time for dessert.  She’s grinning, like she has a secret, and slides into her seat and her dinner consists of any of the desserts she can get her hands into.  Their mentors roll their eyes good-naturedly, and their liaison laughs because he apparently expected this, and, as he informs the table, he has children around her age.

The table sobers up after that and, not feeling very hungry anymore, he pushes the rest of his dessert toward her, and though she tries to deny him, he leaves to use the bathroom and his plate is conspicuously missing.  She’s grinning behind her plate, and the female mentor is muffling a chuckle in her cup.

They get down to business immediately after dinner, reviewing the reaping for other districts to see the competitors for the Games this year.  There isn’t much to comment on by ways of competition- Districts 1 through 4 would be tough as ever to beat this year, but there is just the usual mix of rabble from the lower districts.  None of them comment on the female tribute from District 12.

“Let’s talk talents,” The male mentor says in the morning at breakfast.  He has a bowl of oatmeal in front of him with blueberries mixed liberally into it along with sugar.  He hasn’t taken a bite though, he’s just tapping his spoon along the outside.

“I can sing,” The angel says around a mouthful of fruit.  There’s a mischievous glint in her eyes, so it’s obvious that she deliberately missed the point.  “Does that count?”

It doesn’t, which she’s told, and she just shrugs and busies herself with her breakfast.  She tries and succeeds in pouring half the sugar bowl into her oatmeal before she’s stopped by the Capitol liaison.  They’re both frowning when he takes the bowl away from her, but the liaison is the one who gets scolded, not her.  He knows why.  Not only is this probably the only time either of them is likely to get sugar, but she is less likely to survive than he.  Besides, any problem with their teeth the Capitol stylists will take care of, so what’s the harm?

They don’t say it in that many words, but that’s what’s conveyed.

There’s not much time to dwell on that though, because it’s not too much later that they’re pulling into the Capitol.  She’s more amazed at its appearance than he, and she has her nose pressed against the glass of the train window. 

After that they’re couriered off to their Stylists for the Games, the ones who will decide their looks for the parade, their interviews, and, if either of them makes it, their look for the crowning.  When they arrive, the Stylists all coo and adore her, and tolerate him.  She is easy to work with, him not so much.  She chatters easily with them, and he doesn’t speak.

It’s amazing how swiftly they work, considering they just arrived, and the parade is only a few hours away.  They tailor the outfits so they fit, and they are being shuffled off to stand with the other tributes to await the start of the parade.  Their mentors appear once more and instruct them on what to do for the parade, how to best gain sponsors in this moment, before the tributes are all being told to mount their chariots and the mentors are shuffled out of the way.

The parade is long, it’s boring, and he does nothing but stand there while she flitters at his elbow waving to everyone and beaming.  She’s the youngest tribute, so she’ll be low on the winning coffers for bets, but higher on the poll for the most liked tribute.

Once the parade is done, there’s dinner, and from then on it’s training.  Their mentors ask once more what their talents are, and the answers are more serious than the morning.

“I’m good at climbing,” She says with a shrug, picking at the meat on her plate.  “Back home I could go an entire work shift without touching the ground once.  I’m _really_ good in trees.”

The female mentor nods, looking contemplative.

“Better hope there are trees this year,” She tells her, tapping her fork against her glass. “You’ll have enough wood for fires at night, but there’s no telling if you’ll have more than what is strictly necessary.”

“And you?” The male mentor looks to him, and he shrugs.

“I’m good at heavy lifting?” He suggests uncertainly.  As much as he’s seen the Games, he’s not too sure what would be considered as a useful talent.  “I can carry full bushels by myself from the fields to the trucks without help.”  The mentor nods, thinking it over, and he worries it is not good enough.

“Brute force,” He says eventually.  “Not the kindest of methods, but it’s useful in its own way.  If you’re stronger than the others you’ll have no trouble overpowering them in close combat situations.”  While he speaks, he steadfastly does not look over at either of the girls.

He doesn’t look either.  He doesn’t want to think about what he might have to do in the arena.  Doesn’t think of what he would do.

Training begins early in the morning, so he retires early.  In the morning they all go down together, but while all the tributes are in group training with Capitol instructors, their mentors go off to mingle with others.  The mentors will be mingling with other mentors to try and form alliances between tributes, and chatting up sponsors to get ready for the Games.

They don’t train together, but he keeps an eye on her as he goes about through his training.  He always keeps an eye to the sky, to the ceiling of the training center, because when he can’t see her running from station to station, she’s perched in the rafters above everyone else.  He isn’t sure if she’s allowed up there, or what the Capitol instructors would do if they saw her up there, but she doesn’t get caught so he doesn’t say anything.

One day during practice, she steals one of the Career’s knives while he isn’t looking, and scurries right quick up into the rafters before he notices.  By the time the Career notices, he blames it on a nearby tribute, needing Peacekeepers to separate them.  Smart girl, he thinks, nodding to himself.  If she did that in the arena and didn’t get caught, she’d have no problem surviving.

He also notices her trailing after another one of the tributes– the one from 12.  He keeps an eye on her too, just in case.  Better to be safe, than sorry, he believes, even though none of this will matter once they are out in the arena.

Days pass, and then it’s time for their individual evaluations by the Gamemakers.  He doesn’t have much by way of talent (in his opinion), so he spends his allotted time throwing dumbbells around and tackling training dummies until the Gamemakers let him leave.  The elevator he takes back sends him straight back to his resident floor, and he doesn’t get to see his district partner before she takes her turn.  He paces the floor, not having anything else to do, until she returns.

She’s nonchalant and breezy about her individual evaluation, and when she’s asked, she divulges that she didn’t spend any time on the floor aside from the first moments upon entering the room, and the last ones leaving.  That’s all she says on the matter, and their mentors don’t pry for more information.  The scores in the evening will tell well enough whether or not either of them made an impression on the Gamemakers.

When the scores air, they find that they were all fairly average.  No one sticks out much with their scores except for the tribute from District 12.  She has one of the highest scores, and it is not normal for someone from 12 to get a high score in individual evaluations.  They speculate, and argue whether to be wary of her, but she proclaims,

“She seems like a nice person,” with a charming smile, “She let me follow her around during group training, and no one else let me do that except the girl from 5.”

And that’s the last that’s said on the matter.

The next part of the Games is the interviews.  All the tributes have three minutes apiece to charm the entirety of the Capitol, and it is stressed to them that it is very important that they catch the Capitol’s attention in some way or the other.  Charming the Capitol is how you get sponsors, their mentors tell them, and sponsors are how you can survive longer in the Games.

Girls go first this time, and she is stunning, he can tell as he watches.  Him, on the other hand, not so much.  He cannot manage more than one word answers, and at times he just does not answer.  While she chatters, an open book, wooing the audience, he is cold and stand-offish, acting as if he does not care for the Games.

Which, in honesty, is true, but not how he wants to appear.  He was nervous, though the interview replays do not show it.  His mentor assures him that it is just fine, that there have been years where tributes with the personality he shows to the audience have been victors.

The most stunning of the interviews however, are the tributes from District 12, surprising everyone yet again.  Her mentor clucks her tongue at the male tribute’s confession, and his just shakes his head.  They mutter how it is a shame, how very unlucky, and he finds himself agreeing, quietly happy himself that he didn’t leave someone he loved to come here to die, and happy that he didn’t bring someone he loved to die with him.

That last part isn’t quite true.  He  _has_ come to love the girl with him, but not in the way that the male tribute from 12 loves his counterpart.  While 12’s love is physical, his is more familial.

Night turns to dawn, and they are separated to travel to the holding cells that will eject them into the arena.  It is their final send off, and their mentors hug both of them before they are separated for the last time.  On the hovercraft, he is injected with a tracker that will assist the cameras and Gamemakers in tracking them in the arena, and then he is deposited underground.  There, his Stylist gives him his outfit to change into, and then he is standing in the tube that will raise him into the arena.  No fond words are exchanged between him and his Stylist.  He nods once as the plate ascends, and that is all.

The Cornucopia stands in the center of the tributes, in the middle of a field.  Knowing better than to step off of his platform, he swivels and turns on it, trying to see his surroundings.  Directly in front of him is a lake, while to the left is a forest and to his right is a field of tall grass.  It looks at least seven feet tall, and his gut tells him that it’s not grass.  Still, he knows where he’s headed.

When the gong rings out announcing the commencement of the Games, he and his district partner are the first ones off of their platform.  She avoids most of the battle, grabbing a pack and fleeing to the forest, scaling the first tree she reaches.  He, on the other hand, goes into the mouth of the Cornucopia before anyone else reaches it.  In there, he grabs one of the heavier packs, not worried about weight, and a curved sword.

He has to kill someone in order to escape the Cornucopia, but as soon as he’s out he heads straight for the field, disappearing in it.  In all honesty, he would have rather chased after her, the angel, and helped her out, but the field is where he feels safe.  Where he feels at home.

From there on out, the words the old man told him so many weeks ago take on a different meaning.

“Keep your eyes to the sky,” He whispers to himself, lost in the thicket of the field, as he stares at the sky overhead.  The anthem has just played, and they are now showing the fallen tributes that died in the bloodbath of the Cornucopia, and those that were taken out after.

He clenches his fists tightly as he stares at the pictures that flash by, whispering and hoping to himself that they don’t show her picture.  That she survived the first day.

And she has.  Her picture does not appear that night, or in the following days.

He wanders through the safety of the fields, slicing his way through and finds, with relief, that he does have a path to the lake that won’t require him to entire the Career’s area to get water.  He can get water from the lake and still be hidden, with the tall grass at his back ready to hide in at a moment’s notice.

He still waits until dark every night to fill his water anyways, figuring it was safer.  He doesn’t think that his enemies have any capability of long-range attacks, but he figures that he is better safe than sorry.  A thought passes that he must be the most boring tribute in the Games right now, but he doesn’t care, as the Gamemakers haven’t done anything to force him into the fray yet.  There’s undoubtedly something more interesting going on, otherwise they’d be doing something to him to spice the Games up for the audience.

Then, one night, he sees it in the sky.  Her face, _the angel’s face_ , in the sky above him.  She’s smiling in the tribute photo that was taken of her before the Games started.  He wants to yell, he wants to scream.  He settles for stuffing one fist in his mouth while pounding the other on the ground in a mix of fury and despair.  Tears slide down his cheeks and he shakes with their force.  He doesn’t know how long the fit lasts, but as soon as it’s done, he’s despairing.  He’s all alone.

He contemplates throwing himself in the lake, to save others the trouble, or running himself through with his own sword to end it all.  It would be easier to deal with that pain, surely, than handling the pain of her death.

What snaps him out of it is an announcement mid-morning after he finds out the news.

They announce that there can be two winners this year, if they are both from the same district.  This announcement, for some reason, reinvigorates him.  He may not be able to rescue his district companion, but he can at least ruin other’s chances.  Thinking over the remaining tributes, he realizes only two districts have both their competitors left; 2 and 12.  That’s four opponents right there.  It’s not a good chance for him or the girl from 5, as there’s no doubt that 2 and 12’s tributes will be finding each other and figuring the best way to eliminate the competition.  Four opponents left may not seem as daunting as five, but even he knows that it’s a burden off your shoulders knowing that you may not wind up having to kill your own district mate in order to win.

Still, he decides to bide his time, as there is the possibility that at least 2 and 12’s tributes will try to take each other out of the running before going after either him or 5.  Not only that, but because there is only– because of the new rule –four tributes left, it should not be too long until they are invited to a Feast, or the Gamemakers begin the finale.

It’s a Feast.  The Gamemakers announce a Feast, saying that there is something that all of them desperately need, and that they are all invited to the Cornucopia to retrieve that item.  He doesn’t know what the other tributes need, but he figures in his pack is food.  He’s been subsisting the best he can in the field, with the grass and other small animals in the thicket, but those aren’t enough. 

When dawn comes, he’s at the edge between the field the Cornucopia is in and the tall grass he’s hidden in.  He makes sure to be hidden just enough that he’s obstructed from view from the other contestants, but his view of the Cornucopia isn’t.  The table comes up from the ground, similar to how all the tributes were brought up into the arena.  There’s hesitation all around, until the girl from 5 comes sprinting through the clearing.  She scoops up the pack with her district number on it and is out of sight before any of them can do anything.  Smart girl, he thinks, and he thinks also that she will be a tough one to beat.

In the time that it’s taken for him to watch 5 disappear into the forest, the girl from 12 has emerged from the woods as well for her pack, along with the girl from 2.  He takes advantage of the moment when the girls start fighting, and sprint for his pack.  Things are looking grim for 12, and he’s ready to leave the two to fight to the finish when 2 says something that makes him pause.

“We’re going to kill you.  Just like we did your pathetic little ally … what was her name?  The one who hopped around in the trees?”  First, he freezes.  His brain tries to wrap around what 2 has just said, before it fully hits him.  2 is talking about his district partner.  Rage floods him, and he can’t control his temper.  Doesn’t want to control his temper.

He yanks 2 off of 12 by her feet, before flipping her and tossing her on the ground.

“What’d you do to that little girl?”  What did you do to our angel?  To _his_ angel?  “Did you kill her?”

“No!  No, it wasn’t me!” She’s backing away from him, too terrified to get onto her feet.

He doesn’t believe her.

“You said her name.  I heard you.  You kill her?”  His mind finally processes the scene of 2 on 12 before with her knife, saying how she was going to cut 12 up before finally killing her.  Unintentionally, he imagines 2 doing that to his angel.  They don’t tell you how the other tributes die, after all, only that they are dead.  “You cut her up like you were going to cut up this girl here?”

Rage is overflowing him, and he knows regardless of her answer what his reaction will be.  He seizes a large rock from the ground, and when 2 sees it, she starts screaming her head off for her district partner.  Her district partner calls back, but he can tell that he’s too far away to help her, and he brings the rock down on 2’s head as hard as he can.  He feels her skull collapse under his hands, and before he can wait for the cannon to confirm her death, he turns on 12.

“What’d she mean?” He demands from the remaining girl.  He wants to know what 2 was talking about with her and his district mate being allies.

And 12 tells him, tells him how they worked together to blow up the last of the supplies remaining at the Cornucopia, how she tried to save the angel, but 1 got there first.  When he asks, she hurriedly tells him that she killed 1.  And then she tells him how she covered her in flowers, sang to the angel until she died, how their district sent her bread once the angel was gone, before asking him to make her death fast.

He feels conflicted.  Rationally, he knows he should get 12 out of the way now, level the playing field to only two others.  But, at the same time, he thinks of his district partner, how the two were partners, and gives in.

“Just this one time, I’ll let you go.” He lowers the rock so 12 knows he’s not going to attack her.  “For the little girl.  You and me, we’re even then.  No more owed.  You understand?”

She nods, and before either of them can move, 2’s district partner calls out for her, closer than before.

“You better run now, Fire Girl,” He tells 12, before shouldering his own pack, and grabbing 2’s for the hell of it.  Whatever 2 needed so desperately, it’s his now.  Turning his back on 12, and trusting her not to fire at his open back, he sprints for the tall grass that has been his home for almost two weeks.

He makes his way back to his camp, and when he gets there, he searches through his pack.  Like he thought, there is food in it, plus a sturdier jacket to keep him warm.  It has a hood, and he shucks the jacket on just as the first rumble of thunder echoes across the sky.  He yanks the hood up and stuffs his food into his pack hurriedly, not wanting to get it wet.

The first droplets of water are just crashing to the ground in a harsh torrent when he finishes repacking the bag.  He will have to wait until the storm passes to look through 2’s pack and see what the Gamemakers thought he so desperately needed.  For now, he concentrates on finding somewhere dry and covered to wait out the storm.  It wouldn’t do for him to get into the top five only to die from some sort of cold or flu because of the rain.  He doesn’t want that to be his end.

And the storm, in a sense isn’t his end.  It doesn’t make him sick, and doesn’t cause an accident that leads to his untimely end.

It does, however, allow the male tribute from 2 to catch up with him without him noticing right away.  The rain is loud enough that it hides the other’s footsteps and he doesn’t notice 2 until he’s already got a slash on his arm.

Luckily, it’s not his dominant hand, and he grabs the sword he’s had for so many days and they begin a bloody sword fight that’s a dance to the death.  The rain makes it difficult to see and difficult to move around, but they both do a good job of bloodying each other up.  When 2 slips in the mud, he thinks that this is it, he’s going to take out 2, and only has the two from 12 to worry about.

He’s bringing the sword down on 2 when something freezing slides through his gut.  It’s freezing cold and burning hot at the same time, and it takes one cough to know what happened.  Blood splatters across 2’s hair and his stomach spasms and he knows that he’s been stabbed with 2’s sword.  Death is imminent, even with the sword lodged in him, and he knows that it will be quicker if 2 pulls the sword out.

He raises his head and wonders if 2 will make it quick, or leave him to die a slow and painful death.  After watching previous Games while waiting for these ones to start, he’s sure that 2 will leave him to die slowly.  The Careers are normally sadists like that, not including the fact that he did kill 2’s district partner.

2 spits at his feet as he stands, mouth bloody, and he coughs up more blood himself.  Blood is dribbling down his chin, and he can almost hear 2’s sneering grin as he says, “Only two left,” before his vision blurs and everything fades to black.

His last thought is that he hopes that 12 wins, and his last wish is that he gets to see the angel when he crosses over.

That’s the last thing he’s aware of, that and the rain pouring on his face, as he keeps his eyes to the sky one last time watching lightning dance across the sky, before he’s aware of nothing at all.

Amid the thunder, where no one can hear, a lone cannon fires.

* * *

 " _I want to give my thanks to the tributes of District Eleven.  I only ever spoke to Thresh one time.  Just long enough for him to spare my life.  I didn’t know him, but I always respected him.  For his power.  For his refusal to play the Games on anyone’s terms but his own.  The Careers wanted him to team up with them from the beginning, but he wouldn’t do it.  I respected him for that.” –Katniss Everdeen, Catching Fire, pg. 68_

* * *

 


End file.
